The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby
ChapterForty
They traveled so long into the night that Gwendolyn wondered whether they would ever stop to rest, much less to consummate their vows.
Only considering her recent misadventure, and the fact that there were no pack horses along for the journey, she worried they would spend the evening under the stars—not something she would normally bemoan, save that it was her wedding night, and she knew Ely would not fare well sleeping so meanly. Nor did she like the simple fact that they were women, traveling alone with a troupe full of men—not that she was worried, save for modesty. She had her husband to protect her, and Ely had Bryn. Yet Ely would sleep poorly, despite that she was already half-asleep in her saddle, with her brother poking her now again to keep her from sliding off her horse. By now, Gwendolyn’s own bottom was sore, and despite that she’d been born to a saddle—or nearly—anticipation was killing her as much as the newly fitted saddle on her new horse. She’d forgotten how much a simple thing, like acquainting herself with the rhythm of her mount, could make such a difference in her riding pleasure. Right now, more than Gwendolyn could say, she desperately missed her old mare. She hoped that sweet horse fared better than her cousins, though she daren’t even think of such things right now—not now.
Presently, when they spied torches alight in the distance, spreading a dull yellow glow over the horizon, all Gwendolyn’s worries eased, because she knew then that Locrinus had taken every care to make this night a memorable one.
And now so much made sense. If he knew they would pass this way, and he’d intended to leave directly after the ceremony, of course he would make certain there were tents erected for their pleasure, and every comfort was extended to Gwendolyn and her guests.
She was also pleased that both Bryn and Ely had accompanied her. In the end, her mother blessed her, considering Gwendolyn before her dawnsio. And no matter that Ely was nervous, she too seemed excited to begin a new life, and for a chance to find and marry a man of her own choosing—someone who could love and keep her as Ely deserved to be kept.
As for Bryn, he was back where he belonged, in the position he’d trained for all his life. Gwendolyn knew he would do well amongst her husband’s warriors, and as her Shadow, he would have every opportunity to rise in rank. Perhaps someday he might earn his own troop. And in the meantime, although there was still some underlying tension between them, he was back to his old self.
At the moment, Gwendolyn rode beside Ely, and though Prince Locrinus rode ahead of his troops, leading his men, she saw him peer back now and again, as though he feared she might change her mind and flee. It was really quite endearing, and despite how nervous Gwendolyn was about the coupling, she was now eager to have it done.
“Gods!” Ely gasped when she saw the illumined campsite.
The sight of it was utterly enchanting, with torches lit in a circle, and a village of golden tents already assembled, looking like radiant little moons, winking up at the black night. “It’s so… charming!” said Ely.
Indeed, it was. But once again, those buzzing bees returned, stinging Gwendolyn’s belly until Gwendolyn thought she might retch.
Now was the time.
She watched with her heart in her throat as Prince Locrinus turned and fell back, rode down the line to retrieve her, riding high and proud in his saddle, smiling a smile intended only for her. “Wife,” he said, when he reached her, and Gwendolyn gave him a silent nod, unsettled by the foreign word… husband.
Gods.Even now, it was loath to rise to her tongue. Thankfully, Locrinus didn’t notice, and he motioned for Gwendolyn to join him and leave Ely with Bryn.
Demelza said to expect nerves. She said it was only natural. But this felt… dreadful.
Soon—all too soon, she would be expected to disrobe before him, and he would see all of her then—not as a stranger, but a lover.
His hands would find her breasts and hips, his tongue would tease her mouth, and come what may, she would give him the one thing that was only hers to give.
All eyes were on Gwendolyn as she rode at Prince Locrinus’ side to the head of the line, her limbs suddenly feeling like jiggly pudding—so much that she feared she would slide from her saddle and disgrace herself, all legs and arms and tears.
Perhaps sensing her disquiet, Prince Locrinus bent to take her reins, and for once, Gwendolyn allowed it. The camp was eerily silent as they wended their way through the village of tents—mostly men present, completing various duties, and in one corner of the camp, there was a fire burning with a large cauldron over it, and a cook standing beside it, ladling what must be porridge into bowls, in anticipation of the party’s arrival.
Most of the men traveling with them made straight for this corner, their voices heard at last as they produced flasks for the evening’s enjoyment.
Of course they should wish to celebrate with their prince, but something made Gwendolyn glance back over her shoulder to see if she could spot Ely.
Ely was lost now amidst scattering troops, and Prince Locrinus turned away from the cook’s corner, leading Gwendolyn straight to the largest of the tents.
Naturally, it would be.
Inside, Gwendolyn found it well provisioned, with an enormous bed in the center, and her dowry chest already delivered for her convenience. Remembering the gossamer chainse she’d discovered within, she blushed hotly over the thought of wearing it, because it left nothing to the imagination. Doubtless, the rest of her belongings had been sent ahead.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, with a new eagerness to his voice that sent another swarm of vicious bees through her belly.
Gwendolyn nearly swooned.
Gods.
How could she bear it?
Forcing Málik out of her mind, she started for her dowry chest, to locate that special gown her mother had given her, only hoping Prince Locrinus—her husband—would give her time alone, to prepare for the coupling.
“Sit,” he said, and the single word was a command.
Gwendolyn froze midway across the tent, turning to face her husband with her back toward the canopied bed.
The golden lamplight shone upon him as fiercely as it did the sapphire eyes of his dragons. Like a golden statue, he shone. His hair, long and fine, was loose, flirting with the breeze at his back. And suddenly, Gwendolyn was cold, and far too aware that she was so far from home. She rubbed her arms for warmth as he grinned at her, and the grin transformed his face—both lusty and greedy at once. But though she recognized lust, something about it gave her pause.
Without a word, he reached into his pocket, advancing upon her, his look so dark that she instinctively stepped backward, and kept stepping backwards, until the back of her knees encountered the bed—and still he advanced, his eyes burning with a strange, unnerving light—a fire not unlike the fire in his dragon’s eyes.
Once he reached her, he shoved her back none too politely onto the bed, and Gwendolyn landed on her rump, throwing her hands behind her to support her fall.
“Loc?” she said.
Still without speaking, Prince Loc settled himself so Gwendolyn’s knees lay nestled between his hard thighs. And gods—she swallowed convulsively. Something about his demeanor was different tonight, though he didn’t touch her, nor did he move to disrobe. Instead, he revealed what he’d taken from his pocket—a shining blade, sharp and gleaming against the lamplight. Smiling now, he reached out and rudely pulled Gwendolyn closer and before she knew what he intended, he had already sliced the first lock of hair.
It fluttered to the bed.
But it was only hair.
Not golden.
Not gold.
Only hair.
The sight of it suddenly enraged him.
Rudely, growling like a beast, he seized Gwendolyn by the hair to cut even more, tugging at her curls, until she cried out in protest.
Snick.
Snick.
Snick.
Hair.
Not gold.
Not golden.
Only hair.
There was a growing pile now, and Gwendolyn blinked herself out of her stupor, finally comprehending.
He didn’t care about her.
He only cared about her hair.
He wasn’t her true love.
Snick.
Snick.
Snick.
More hair.
Not gold.
Not golden.
Only hair.
“Gods!” he exclaimed. “I am such a fool!”
He went another round with her hair, furiously cutting, tugging, pulling and snipping, hacking and snipping, until another furious roar rose from the depth of his bowels, erupting from his throat.
At long last, Prince Locrinus stood back, glaring at Gwendolyn as though she were a hideous beast, and shouted, “Liar!”
His lips twisted cruelly, as he said, “I’d not bed you if you were the last woman in all these lands. I’d bugger a filthy druid before I’d ever touch you!”
And then, with a snarl, he hurled his blade into the bed, embedding it there in the center, where he and Gwendolyn were meant to lie. Without another word, he left, and Gwendolyn blinked down at the mess on the bed.
Only hair.
Not golden.
Not gold.
In the lantern’s light, it was dull, with only a shade of red.
Their love was not true. Their courtship only a ruse.
Prince Locrinus was not the man she’d supposed.
But the blade…
Drawn to it, Gwendolyn blinked again, her hand trembling as she retrieved the dagger to inspect it, and her heart squeezed more painfully than she ever knew possible when finally she held it in her hand.
The blade… it was double-edged, similar to a sword, meant to be used for stabbing, long enough to slip between a rib and stab a heart. The marking on the hilt was painfully familiar—the ancient guardian of Dumnonia, without the barbed tongue… and… there was a tiny black pearl in the dragon’s eye.
Bile rose in Gwendolyn’s throat, the taste bitter, like betrayal, and something like fury simmered through her blood, filling her with a dragon’s rage.
Those tender twines and thorns, newly spun about her heart, now slid painfully through her veins, sending roots so deep they sank into bone and marrow. Because the blade… it was Borlewen’s.